


Happy Christmas, Jackson Whittemore!

by JoulesIsIronic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoulesIsIronic/pseuds/JoulesIsIronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On holiday in London, Stiles and Scott run into an old "friend."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Christmas, Jackson Whittemore!

**Author's Note:**

> Written before the midseason finale for the third season. Acts on the premise that Derek is still an alpha. 
> 
> A thank you to all my wonderful friends for feedback! [Including, but not limited to, stormysaslytherin, otatop, and ineedmyfantasyworld].

Stiles had always thought of Scott as a brother, but he’d never really considered the possibility for that label to become literal. And, technically, it still wasn’t. But a year has passed since their respective parents finally took the plunge into the romantic waters of relationshiphood, and already they are coming to know the joys of “family” vacations.

Which, really, are actually pretty awesome. It’s not often that Stiles gets to enjoy the company of two of the most important people in his life at the same time; and he hasn’t been to London since several years before his mom died, when they’d gone to visit some relatives, so Stiles isn’t complaining. He gets his dad, he gets his best bro, and he gets Ms. McCall (who he’s 79 percent sure is actually growing fond of him), so he doesn’t really see the downside.

At least, not until he and Scott return to the hotel at noon, their plans cancelled due to the blizzard, looking forward to warming in the comfort of their room.

They get all the way to their floor before things go horribly, terribly wrong.

“And that, Scotty-boy, is why Batman would beat Ironman, should their fictional universes collide,” Stiles is concluding, strolling to a standstill when he sees Scott has stopped. The snow clinging to their jackets has nothing on the shade of white Scott has turned, a look of revulsion creeping into his features.

“Scott?” Stiles tries again.

Scott’s mouth twists into a grimace, his nose scrunching up unpleasantly. “We need to leave now,” he chokes out, covering his face with his hand and backing away.

An image flashes in Stiles’ mind of death, of some other werewolves or supernatural creatures invading the hotel – the hotel where his father and his best friend’s mother are staying, along with various civilians.

“Scott, what’s going on?” Stiles asks, grabbing Scott’s shoulder. “Is anyone hurt? Is my dad okay? Scott?”

Scott physically gags, squeezing his eyes shut, pulling Stiles along as he gropes for the elevator. “Everyone’s fine, Stiles. _Fine_. We just need to get out of here, like right _now_.”

“But _why_?” Stiles pesters as they file into the elevator, pressing Lobby indicator. “What the hell is going on? I need you to talk to me, buddy.”

Scott lets out a _whine_. “Drop it, Stiles!”

“Tell me!”

[The elevator dings. _Floor 3._ ]

“Stiles, _stop_! You don’t want to know!”

“Since when have I not wanted to know something?!”

[Ding. _Floor 2._ ]

“Just trust me, okay! We need to get out of this building!”

“I’m not stepping foot out of this _elevator_ until you tell me what your deal is!”

[Ding. _Lobby_. The doors slowly slide open.]

“Our parents are having sex!” Scott finally hisses (not-so-quietly), receiving the stares of several patrons and an eye-roll from a member of the hotel staff.

Stiles can only respond with a very intelligent, “What?”

The other teen sighs, running a hand through his dark hair, pushing his way out of the lift. “I was trying to spare you the pain of _knowing_ , Stiles.” Then he shudders again, his eyes staring up at something invisible above them, pained.

“But – I mean, what? – I mean, _how_ do you even know that? Like,” Stiles begins, only for Scott to point a finger at his nose.

“Super senses, Man. I could smell – and _hear_ …” he cuts off, shaking his head. “I can’t stay in this building, Stiles, I can’t. We need to leave here, and preferably _never_ come back. _Ever_.”

Through the shining glass doors, Stiles watches the snow beat down on the ground in heavy clumps. “But – _blizzard_ , Dude.”

“Parents. Having. Sex.” Scott grits out, clenching his eyes shut again. “Ugh, now that I’m aware of it, I can’t escape it! Why are they so loud?! _I don’t want to know these things, Stiles!_ ”

Stiles sighs, refastening his soaked knit hat to his head, staring resolutely at snow outside (their new, immovable enemy). “Blizzard it is.”

And so their wintery adventure begins.

~*~

It takes several blocks before Scott’s face finally relaxes a fraction. By then, Stiles’ hands and feet are nearly numb with cold.

“Those sounds are going to haunt my nightmares for the next five years, at least,” Scott grumbles, kicking through the quickly accumulating snow.

Stiles shrugs, because it’s one of the only gestures he can still do. “Could be worse.”

“Oh really? How?”

“You could have walked in on them,” Stiles says, because he’s freezing and feeling a wee-bit spiteful. “You could have seen their naked bodies all over each other. You could have…”

“Oh my god, stop!” Scott shrieks, betrayed. “That’s my mom! That’s _your_ dad! I do not need to add mental images to the pile of emotional scarring I just received, Stiles!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need to develop frostbite on my nads, Scott!” He can’t help shooting back, because, holy fuck is it cold! And, due to the blizzard, _nothing_ is open. There is literally nowhere for them to stop to warm up. And Scott still refuses to return to the hotel. “Not all of us are super-duper walking werewolf furnaces!”

Scott had the decency to look a bit guilty. “Sorry, Man. Forgot you don’t run as hot as I do.”

At that, all of Stiles lingering irritation dissolves, because Scott literally has the puppy eyes going for him, and you can’t stay mad at a puppy. “It’s cool, Bro. I’d have probably done the same if I was the one with the amped-up senses.”

They grow quiet; Stiles because he can no longer feel his face and Scott likely because he’s trying to repress the memories from an hour earlier.

Then, when Stiles is about to finally suggest that they cuddle for warmth in a little alcove, Scott perks up.

“What?” Stiles manages to ask.

Scott turns to him with a toothy grin. “I never thought I’d be smiling when I say this, but _Jackson’s nearby_!”

For a moment, Stiles can only stare at him. Then he sputters. “Whittemore? Jackson Whittemore? He’s here? As in, nearby? As in, nearby in a house that almost definitely has a working heater and/or fireplace?”

The other teen nods enthusiastically. “Come on!” And Stiles follows. Because no matter how many times in the past Stiles has said things along the lines of “I’d rather [insert repulsive action here] than fraternize with Jackson Whittemore,” apparently when push comes to shove, he _wouldn’t_ “rather.”

Stiles isn’t surprised when they come upon an extravagant-looking house with “Whittemore” emblazed on the mailbox. He is, however, surprised to see the face of one Jackson Whittemore staring at them with a mixture of disbelief and horror through a small, face-sized window on the grand, TARDIS-blue door.

It opens (though not in an inviting, come-on-in way), and Stiles shouldn’t be astounded that Jackson’s new werewolfitude managed to add on even _more_ muscle to his already ripped physique.  He’s quite the intimidating specimen, even in a wife beater and penguin-print pajama pants.

“What the hell are you losers doing here?” he demands, glaring from Scott to Stiles, as though they personally were the cause of all his life’s problems. Still the same old Jackson, then.

“Happy Christmas, Jackson!” Stiles manages to exclaim with minimal shivering. “What a lovely place you’ve got here! It’s just reeking of warmth and charisma! Speaking of warmth, mind if we come in for a bit to thaw? I mean, to catch up on old times and whatever?”

Jackson ignores him, looking towards Scott. “Is that it? Seriously? You dumbasses came all the way here for, what? Reminiscing by the fireplace and a cup of tea?”

Scott eyes him hopefully at that. “A cup of tea sounds amazing right now.”

“A _fireplace_ sounds amazing right now,” Stiles adds.

“I wasn’t actually offering you anything, idiot.”

They’ve finally made it up the steps and to the threshold. Sweet, glorious warmth is only a few feet away.

“Come on, Jackson! I’m freezing my balls off out here!” Stiles whines, hoping he’ll for once be merciful.

And Jackson (being Jackson) snorts, rolling his eyes and moving to shut the door. “Screw off.” Then, before completely closing it, he seems to think he’s missing something and adds, “Morons,” before slamming it shut. There’s an audible click as the lock slides into place.

“Wow, Jackson finally accomplished what he failed to in years of bullying. I think I actually might cry. Am I crying? My face is so frozen I can’t actually tell.”

“You’re not crying,” Scott assures him. “It just looks like you are because your eyes are red and the snow’s making it look like your face is wet.”

“That makes me feel loads better,” Stiles tells him dryly, sliding down against the door to have a seat. The overhang above has actually protected some of the space in front of the door with being drenched, and Stiles will take whatever rest he can.

Then and idea comes.

He whips out his phone, already pressing the speed dial for Lydia (because his numb fingers would never be able to actually dial her number).

“What are you doing?” Scott asks, taking a seat next to him.

“If anyone can get Jackson to cooperate, it’s Lydia.” Stiles rushes out. “If she was a werewolf, she would totally be his Alpha; well, she’d be everyone’s Alpha, ‘cause she’s Lydia. She can totally convince him to…”

From the other end of the line, he hears the sounds of a groggy Lydia, demanding, “Is someone dead?”

Stiles is so caught off-guard (because, hello? Time differences. Quick math tells him it’s about five in the morning California), that he just dumbly says, “No.”

The line goes dead.

“Crap,” he mutters, his phone nearly slipping through his shivering fingers. “Well, we’re right fucked.”

Scott frowns, sighing. “What about his actual Alpha? You know, Derek? Maybe he can make him help?”

Stiles ponders. On one hand, he doesn’t want to get mauled to death when he gets home. On the other hand, he already woke Lydia from what sounded like a deep sleep; in comparison to her wrath, nothing is really that terrifying.

He hits the speed dial.

Several rings later, he’s greeted with a growl. “What?”

At least Derek doesn’t sound quite as pissed as Lydia (which is really quite amazing, because Derek’s almost always some level of pissed).

This time, Stiles actually wants a chance at explaining his predicament, so he rambles on as fast as he can. “Look, Scott and I are trapped outside in a blizzard and we can’t go back to the hotel because we’ve been sexiled and Scott’s scarred for life and my junk is freezing off and I _really_ don’t want to be a eunuch, so can you call Jackson and make him let us in, pretty please with a cherry on top?”

Like before, the line goes dead.

“Well, there dies our last hope,” Stiles groans. “I suppose that leaves us with several options. One, cuddling for warmth. Two, emptying our pockets and seeing if we have enough to afford a hotel room somewhere. Three, going back to the other hotel. Four…”

Suddenly, Scott makes a shushing motion, looking toward the door, his face lighting up with a smile.

“What?” Stiles asks, when suddenly the door behind his head is pulled open, sending him sprawling backwards with a thud.

An angry-looking Jackson is scowling down at him. There’s a crunched-up-looking cellphone clenched in his fist.

“Get in before I change my mind,” he snaps. “And don’t touch anything. Everything in my house is worth more than either of your parents make in a year.”

As Stiles barrels past Scott to get into the house, he can’t help making a comment. “Jackson Whittemore! So generous! Upon seeing his not-friends freezing on his stoop, his heart grew three sizes!”

Jackson looks unimpressed, but Stiles doesn’t care. He’s already stripped out of several top layers and is contemplating losing his jeans.

“I can’t believe you called Hale on me,” he mutters irately. “Fucking tattle-tales. He actually _ordered_ me to let you in. _Ordered_.”

Stiles looks questioningly to Scott, who nods (having clearly overheard the conversation).

All he can think is, “Thank fucking Christ.”

He mentally vows to give Derek the biggest “thank you for not letting me freeze to death and/or lose my special man parts” hug of all time when he gets home, even if it might end in a broken nose on his part. But he figures, if he could wake the Alpha up at five in the morning without Jackson being ordered to murder him (and instead being forced to let both teenagers inside), he can probably get away with a hug.

All in all, as he and Scott snuggle under several blankets in front of the Whittemore’s fireplace (with Jackson glaring from across the room, ignoring them in favor of the television), he thinks this has been a very informative vacation. And even though he risked losing essential body parts via frostbite, he can’t help smiling at the thought of the next family trip.

~*~

Eventually, the other Whittemores return home, having themselves trudged through the blizzard. Jackson’s mother is the first to arrive, greeting them with an icy glare and cold silence. It would be enough to send chills down Stiles’ spine if he wasn’t too busy curled up in front of the fireplace, blatantly not caring about her opinion. She fixes two cups of tea (one for herself and one for Jackson), taking a seat across the room, pretending to read while she alternately shoots Scott and Stiles dirty looks. Scott, for his part, looks cowed. Stiles only tucks the blanket tighter around his person.

Besides, Stiles convinces himself her hatred of him is merely a phase. She used to at least tolerate his existence. He figures she’ll get over the alleged kidnapping-via-police-vehicle thing eventually. Maybe by the time they all graduate college, even.

Mr. Whittemore is another story. Stiles can pinpoint the exact moment when he recognizes the two excess teenagers in his living room; it’s the same second that his face contorts with rage.

The man seethes for a moment before bellowing loudly: “We have a _RESTRAINING ORDER_!”

Stiles chokes out a laugh, glancing at Scott, who’s wearing a panicked look and gesturing wildly for him to abort. Still, he can’t help commenting, “So that’s where Jackson gets it!”

Unsurprisingly, they are unceremoniously thrown out. After seeing their matching expressions of outrage, Stiles even thinks it was almost worth it.

And so they trudge on.


End file.
